The Sick Man
by ACatWhoWrites
Summary: In relation to the Ottoman Empire/Türkiye's status as "the sick man of Europe"; also stars Byzantium.


"Byzantium." Byzantium, known to the modern world as Istanbul, looked away from his calculator and smiled at his friend.

"Are you ever going to call me by my real name?"

"That is your real name; you've just gotten used to living with Türkiye."

The dark-haired man shook his head, chuckling softly. "It's good to see you, Greece." Greece helped himself to a seat on one of the many cushions in the room. It was always a delight visiting Istanbul; he was a mixture of cultures that just kept growing and developing. His room was an eclectic collection of antiques and modern technology.

"Okay, so a little kitten told me you might stop by." A brown tabby cat rubbed against the door frame, stopping to sniff the beaded curtain before padding into the room. It was followed by three others, all mixed breeds. They each took a spot on their own cushion or lap. "How've you been?"

"I've been better. I'm just tired from digging up Mom's ruins." The cat on his lap meowed and nuzzled his hand, looking for attention. Istanbul pet one of the cats that commandeered his lap, cooing softly at it.

"You're welcome to rest here. I'll be finishing up these finances, then I was going to head out to the Egyptian bazaar," Byzantium offered. He returned to his work, saying absently "You're also more than welcome to join me, of course." The cat purred into its tail, content to curl up on his lap.

Greece set another cat on the cushion beside him, covering his mouth as he yawned. "I think I'll just rest a bit; I can always go out to your bazaars later in the evening, when the city's lit."

"It is rather pretty when it's all lit up, isn't it?" Istanbul smiled in agreement.

"Very much so," Greece yawned. He flopped back onto the pile of soft cushions, allowing his body to relax and for his mind to drift into semi-consciousness.

He fell asleep to the soft sound of Istanbul punching buttons on his calculator.

Greece stretched in his sleep, rolling on to his back. His shirt lifted and sat above his navel, exposing his tan skin to the open air. Something brushed over his skin; he sleepily waved a hand at it, unconsciously expecting to feel fur. Instead his fingers touched warm flesh. Consciousness began to swim to the front of his mind, waking him up with confused questions. Green eyes squinted open; it was dark outside, but a lamp was lit on Istanbul's desk.

"Türkiye!" The dark nation lounged next to Greece, leaning his cheek on his open palm, simply watching the other sleep while teasing his belly with a finger.

"Evening," Türkiye said. His voice was deep, heavily accented like all the nations, and held a playful note that Greece didn't like. "Imagine my surprise," he began, grabbing Greece around the waist before he could stand up "when Istanbul tells me you're here."

"I just came to see him."

"Yet you're here alone."

"You know what?" Greece clawed at the older man's arm, trying unsuccessfully to free himself. He gave up with an angry huff. "I wish your economy would fail again."

"Are you _still_ sore about Istanbul? It's been ages; he's happy here."

"That's because it's what he knows. All the times he's been destroyed and rebuilt...I wouldn't be surprised if he forgets his past."

"That's good; he's developing a diverse culture; everyone loves it."

"I don't. History is what makes our present, and without the present, there is no future, so he'd be better off—" His voice caught as Türkiye's hand slipped down the front of his pants, fondling his groin teasingly and making his shoulders tense. "...Byzantium could come back any time."

Türkiye nuzzled Greece's cheek with his own. It was scratchy, and Greece could smell tobacco and cologne in his clothes, an exotic mix. "I gave him a shopping list; he'll be busy for a while." Of course; Türkiye thought of everything. That didn't mean he always ended up being right, but he considered possibilities.

"If you're going to do something, hurry up and get it over with. I don't—" Türkiye's hand squeezed him gently. "I don't _like_ you touching me!"

"I'm getting a different sentiment from down here." Greece squirmed, slowly loosing control of his self-discipline. His shoulders touched Türkiye's chest, and the man's arm snaked across his torso, taking his chin and turning Greece's face towards him. "Such an erotic face you're making for not liking it." Greece made his muscles frown, but it didn't last. Türkiye kissed him, and all logical thought flew south.

Greece touched his face, repulsed but attracted to the rough, scruffy beard. "You really are a sick man."

"So I'm told."

THE END


End file.
